I can see the chaos, but I’m watching it like a muted dream.
Faces everywhere, mouths open in silent screams.
A dark-haired Fae in a light blue dress crawls across the floor. The back of her gown hangs in tatters, the skin underneath shredded. Blood blooms like an opening flower, turning the silk crimson.
Thorn Guards swing their massive black shadow swords through the air, cleaving into flesh. Blood sprays. Body parts fly.
I push myself up the wall and try to stand, but my legs shake so violently I can’t hold my weight. I collapse back down.
Sound seeps back slowly, then roars all at once. Screams and shouts. The clashing ring of metal on metal. The insistent screech left over from the explosion. I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block it out as pain reverberates through my skull. It barely muffles the mayhem.
I force myself to focus on who the Thorn Guards are fighting, and a new wave of horror awakens in me.
The nearest Thorn Guard battles a tall, powerfully built Fae. Pure strength—enormous muscles straining as he parries the Thorn Guard’s attack. Thick leather straps crisscross his wide chest where a glowing green gem glints. Leather vambraces cover thick forearms. He wears tight leather trousers, a belt low on his hips weighted down by an empty scabbard. Long boots pound the floor as he leaps forwards again, brandishing a wicked curved sword.
His skin is tanned, smeared with dirt. His face scrunches with anger, highlighted by ungodly bright green eyes that seem to glow. But his features are otherworldly. Godlike. Handsome.
I’ve never seen one before, but I know instinctively what he is.
Equitae. Horse Shifter Fae.
The Thorn Guard gains the upper hand as they both whirl away into the chaos.
I know I need to get up or I’ll likely die here if the Equitae are here.
I try again, managing to stand upright while gripping the wall. Pain radiates through every nerve, but I need to move. When I feel more stable, I spot a fallen sword on the floor. If I’m going to survive this, I’ll need to fight my way out. I pick it up and grunt at the weight, but it will have to do.
I start towards the golden doors, staying close to the wall, out of the worst of the fighting. I trip over something and stumble. When I look down, I stifle a cry.
Daphne. The General’s wife. Wide-eyed and still, a jagged hole in her chest.
I gag, tasting bile, but swallow it back down. I step over her and continue.
This damn skirt is hampering me. I grab it with my spare hand and tug, ripping it in swathes. It ends up short and ragged, but I can move freely now. I swing up quickly to block a blow coming towards me, the clang reverberating down my arm. A Thorn Guard brings his sword down on my attacker. His head falls from his body. Blood sprays—hot drops hit my face and bare arms. His body crumples, and the Thorn Guard carries on, eyes devoid of emotion.
“Alaya!” I hear my name faintly across the noise.
I look over towards the voice and Kiernan stands near the main doors, sword in hand, face and hands covered in slick red blood. He has the audacity to grin wickedly at me, motioning to my dress alterations and nodding his approval. Sick bastard. But I’m glad he’s alive.
I continue towards him.
Then I feel it—an unusual pull in the pit of my stomach. A dull ache like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Not painful, but alive. It writhes like a living entity, pulling against my body towards the centre of the room.
Time stops.
An Equitae stands there, staring at me. The moonlight catches him in the middle of the room, surrounded by the bloody mayhem yet untouched by it all. Like he exists in his own bubble of reality.
He takes a few steps closer, confusion and wonder on his face. He doesn’t break my stare.
My mouth drops open slightly as he becomes clearer.
He is violence personified.
Long black hair, shaved close on the left side, exposes an ear pierced with several hoops. His skin is tanned, marked by small, raised scars. His eyes are blazing yellow, glowing faintly against high cheekbones. Full lips curve in a smirk, his tongue playing with two hoops pierced through either side of his lower lip. He’s tall but lean, his body lithe and graceful. Black leather straps cross his chest where a bright yellow gem pulses. His hand trails down his body with deliberate slowness, drawing my eyes to where a bulge strains against black leather trousers.
He’s the most beautiful Fae I’ve ever seen.
That strange pull inside me strains towards him, writhing tendrils trying to reach across the space between us.
